j|p|fej|  III  l^g^^^^ 


/ 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


The  Old    Corner  Bouk 

Store,    Inc. 
Boston,       -       Mass. 


Pre'vious  Publications : 

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With  Interpretations  of  Some  of  Them 


To  Tour  Dog  A?td 
To  My  Dog 


FIRST  IMPRESSION,  SEPTEMBER  1915 
SECOND  IMPRESSION,  DECEMBER   1915 
THIRD  IMPRESSION,  FEBRUARY  I916 
FOURTH   IMPRESSION,  APRIL  1916 


TO  YOUR  DOG 


AND    TO 


MY  DOG 


"MAY  THEY  LIVE  LONG  AND  PROSPER" 


By 
LINCOLN  NEWTON  KINNICUTT 


BOSTON  and  NEIF  YORK 

Houghton  Mifflin  Company 


COPYRIGHT,    1915,   BY  LINCOLN  NEWTON  KINNICUTT 
ALL    RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  December  iqi^ 


To  him  who  has  never  called  a  dog  his  friend 
The  full  meaning  of  pure  friendship  is  unknown 


90446S 


Dear  Dogs:  — 

I  have  brought  together  in  my  library  a 
few  of  the  many  proofs  that  show  how  true  is 
the  affection  which  many  of  your  masters  have 
for  you,  and  some-time  when  I  can  read  them 
to  you  privately,  you  will  understand  more 
fully  the  place  you  hold  in  our  lives.  I  use 
the  word  MASTER  only  because  our  lan- 
guage is  too  poor  to  express  in  one  word  the 
real  relationship  which  exists  between  us,  we 
the  master,  and  you  the  devoted  slave  and 
trusted  servant,  the  most  joyful  of  playfellows, 
and  the  best  of  companions,  the  bravest  de- 
fender, and  the  truest  friend.  I  wish  I  knew 
the  word  in  your  language  which  expresses 
all  that  you  are  to  us.  I  also  wish  I  knew  how 
much  you  know,  and  could  learn  the  many 
things  you  would  gladly  teach  us. 

You  can  see  what  we  cannot  see. 

You  can  hear  sounds  we  cannot  hear. 

[vii] 


You  interpret  signs  we  cannot  read. 

You  scent  the  trails  we  cannot  find. 

You  talk  to  us  with  your  speaking  eyes, 
and  we  cannot  understand. 

You  are  sometimes  cruelly  treated,  and  so 
are  human  beings,  and  sometimes  we  have  to 
punish  you  for  you  are  not  always  good.  You 
have  a  certain  amount  of  deviltry  in  your  na- 
ture which  we  rather  like,  for  it  makes  you 
more  human  and  lovable.  Your  sins,  how- 
ever, are  mostly  against  the  laws  we  have 
made  for  you,  not  against  your  own,  or  those 
of  nature,  which  are  the  laws  of  a  higher 
power  than  ours  —  the  one  who  made  you. 

What  glorious  times  have  we  enjoyed  to- 
gether tramping  or  riding  through  the  fields 
and  woods,  over  the  hills  and  by  the  streams 
and  through  the  swamps,  or  at  the  sea,  on 
the  sands  and  rocks,  or  over  the  salt  marshes, 
with  gun  or  camera  or  botany  box,  or  with 
nothing  at  all!   We  have  shared  the  best  the 

[  ^'"i  ] 


world  can  give  us,  nature's  gifts.  And  return- 
ing home,  tired  and  happy,  we  in  the  even- 
ing, before  a  bright  wood  fire,  you  close  by 
our  side  or  at  our  feet  only  so  that  you  can 
touch  us,  have  lived  over  what  the  day  has 
given  us.  Or  sometimes  at  night  before  a  camp 
fire  with  the  quiet  of  the  wood  sounds  all 
about  us,  have  dreamed  of  the  ducks  and  the 
grouse  and  the  partridges,  or  of  rare  flowers  or 
a  beautiful  landscape  which  the  past  day  has 
brought,  or  of  what  the  next  day  will  bring. 
And  perhaps  you  have  dreamed  also,  a  little 
selfishly  (you  are  only  selfish  in  your  dreams) 
of  the  rabbits  and  squirrels  and  the  wood- 
chucks  which  have  been  the  greatest  tempta- 
tion for  you  to  resist  all  day  long.  They  must 
have  existed  long  ago  in  your  garden  of  Eden. 
No  matter  what  our  conditions  or  sur- 
roundings in  life  may  be  you  accept  them 
gladly.  King  or  peasant,  palace  or  hovel, 
riches  or  poverty,  plenty  or  starvation,  burn- 

[ix] 


ing  sun  or  ice  and  snow,  if  you  have  once 
given  us  your  affection,  no  matter  who  or 
what  your  master  may  be,  you  give  him  all 
you  have  to  give  to  the  very  end  —  even  life 
itself.  It  would  almost  seem  that  you  were 
created  only  to  serve  us,  for  wherever  man 
has  been,  even  in  the  far  past  where  history 
is  almost  a  myth,  you  have  been  also,  close 
by  his  side.  Old  Egypt,  Persia,  Greece,  and 
ancient  Rome  have  told  of  your  fidelity  and 
of  your  devotion. 

You  know  us  in  many  ways  as  no  human 
being  knows  us,  for  every  hour  of  your  life 
you  wish  to  be  near,  and  often  you  are  our 
most  intimate  companion  and  the  best  friend 
we  have  in  the  world.  We  talk  to  you,  more 
than  half  believing,  or  trying  to  believe,  that 
you  understand,  and  I  am  not  sure  but  that 
to  you  alone  we  always  tell  the  absolute  truth, 
we  whisper  to  you  our  secrets,  we  confide  to 
you  our  hopes  and  ambitions,  we  tell  you  of 

[^  ] 


our  successes  and  our  disappointments,  and 
often  in  deep  grief  you  alone  see  what  we 
think  is  weakness  to  show  to  the  outside 
world.  Whatever  happens  to  us  we  are  sure 
of  one  friend,  even  if  the  whole  world  is 
against  us.  We  trust  to  you  our  greatest  treas- 
ures, our  children,  and  we  know  with  you 
they  are  safe. 

When  you  go  to  the  Happy  Hunting 
Ground  you  are  truly  and  deeply  mourned, 
and  the  great  legacy  you  leave  us  is  the  mem- 
ory of  your  loyalty,  your  devotion,  your  trust, 
and  memory  of  the  many  happy  hours  and 
happy  days  you  have  given  us  in  your  too  short 
life.  And  when  we  are  obliged  to  say  "the 
King  is  dead,"  we  do  not  complete  the  old 
saying  "  long  live  the  King  "  for  many,  many 
months  —  and  sometimes  never. 

May  we  meet  again, 

Your  masters,  and 

Your  FRIENDS. 


Note 
To  The  Masters 

The  blank  space  on  the  title  cover  is  de- 
signed for  a  photograph,  or  any  picture,  of 
your  own  dog. 

This  collection  is  composed  almost  entirely 
of  verses  that  have  been  written  within  the 
last  twenty-five  years.  I  know  only  too  well 
that  I  have  omitted  many  poems  that  the 
Dogs  should  hear,  but  I  have  not  attempted 
a  large  anthology,  for  it  has  been  done  sev- 
eral times  by  far  abler  hands.  I  also  know 
you  will  ask  why  some  of  your  favorite  poems 
are  not  found  in  this  collection,  but  I  have 
selected  only  a  small  number,  among  the 
many  that  have  appealed  to  me,  for  I  prom- 
ised to  read  only  a  few  to  my  friends,  the 
Dogs,  and  I  have  left  many  blank  half  pages 
on  which  you  can  copy  your  own  favorite 

Dog  Poems. 

L.  N.  K. 


Note 
To  those  to  whom  I  am  indebted 

I  wish  to  thank  the  Authors  for  their  kindness 
in  permitting  me  to  reprint  their  poems  and  I  also 
wish  to  acknowledge  the  courtesy  of  the  many 
Publishers  who  have  given  me  permission  to  re- 
print selections  from  their  publications.  To  many 
friends  I  wish  to  express  my  obligation  for  the  use 

of  their  collections. 

L.  N.  K. 


Contents 


LUFRA 

Fidele's  Grassy  Tomb 

Leo 

Geist's  Grave 

The  Power  of  the  Dog 

To  RuFus,  A  Spaniel 

Tim,  an  Irish  Terrier 

To  A  Terrier 


Sir  Walter  Scott  i 

Henry  Newbolt  5 

Richard  Watson  Gilder  13 

Matthew  Arnold  l  7 

Rudyard  Kipling  25 

R.  C.  Lehmann  31 

W.  M.  Letts  39 

Patrick  R.  Chalmers  43 


Rhapsody  on  a  Dog's  Intelligence 


Frances 
Roger  and  I 
"Sir  Bat-Ears" 
Cluny 
Laddie 
Davy 
A  Friend 
The  Bath 
Six  Feet 

WiLHELM 


Burges  "Johnson  47 

Richard  Wightman  53 

Julian  S.  Cutler  59 

Mrs.  Eden  65 

William  Croswell  Doane  7 1 

Katharine  Lee  Bates  75 

Louise  Imogen  Guiney  79 

Zitella  Cocke  83 

R.  C,  Lehmann  87 

Anonymous  9  3 

Patrick  R.  Chalmers  97 
[  xvii  ] 


An  Old  Dog  Celia  Duffin   loi 

Remarks  to  my  Grown-up  Pup     Surges  Johnson   105 

An  Extract  from  Inscription  on  the  Monu- 
ment OF  A  Newfoundland  Dog       Lord  Byron   109 

To  Tim,  an  Irish  Terrier  fF.  M.  Letts  113 

My  Dog  Anna  Hadky  Middkmas   117 

"  Without  are  Dogs"  Edward  A.  Church   121 


You're  a  Dog 

A  Gentleman 

My  Dog 

To  Scott,  a  Collie 

'Dodo,'  1903-1913 

Epitaph 


C.  L.  Gilman    125 

Anonymous   129 

St.  John  Lucas   133 

W.  M.  Letts   137 

Arthur  Austin-Jackson    141 

Sir  Walter  Scott   143 


"Hamish,"  a  Scotch  Terrier     C.  Hilton  Brown  145 


LUFRA 

BY 

SIR    WALTER    SCOTT 

From 

The  Lady  of  the  Lakg 


LUFRA 

The  Monarch  saw  the  gambols  flag, 
And  bade  let  loose  a  gallant  stag, 
Whose  pride,  the  holiday  to  crown. 
Two  favorite  greyhounds  should  pull  down, 
That  venison  free,  and  Bordeaux  wine, 
Might  serve  the  archery  to  dine. 
But  Lufra,  —  whom  from  Douglas'  side 
Nor  bribe  nor  threat  could  e'er  divide. 
The  fleetest  hound  in  all  the  North,  — 
Brave  Lufra  saw  and  darted  forth. 
She  left  the  royal  hounds  mid  way. 
And  dashing  on  the  antlered  prey. 
Sunk  her  sharp  muzzle  in  his  flank. 
And  deep  the  flowing  life-blood  drank. 
The  King's  stout  huntsman  saw  the  sport 
By  strange  intruder  broken  short. 
Came  up,  and  with  his  leash  unbound. 
In  anger  struck  the  noble  hound. 

[3  ] 


To  Your  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

—  The  Douglas  had  endured,  that  morn. 

The  King's  cold  look,  the  nobles'  scorn, 

And  last,  and  worst  to  spirit  proud. 

Had  borne  the  pity  of  the  crowd; 

But  Lufra  had  been  fondly  bred. 

To  share  his  board,  to  watch  his  bed. 

And  oft  would  Ellen,  Lufra's  neck. 

In  maiden  glee  with  garlands  deck; 

They  were  such  playmates,  that  with  name 

Of  Lufra,  Ellen's  image  came. 

His  stifled  wrath  is  brimming  high. 

In  darkened  brow  and  flashing  eye; 

As  waves  before  the  bark  divide. 

The  crowd  gave  way  before  his  stride; 

Needs  but  a  buffet  and  no  more. 

The  groom  lies  senseless  in  his  gore. 

Such  blow  no  other  hand  could  deal 

Though  gauntleted  in  glove  of  steel. 


FIDELE'S    GRASSY    TOMB 

From 

The  Island  Race 

BY 

HENRY    NEWBOLT 


By  permission  of  the  Author,  and  of  the  Publishers 
Elkin  Mathews,  London 


FIDELE'S  GRASSY  TOMB 

The  Squire  sat  propped  in  a  pillowed  chair. 
His  eyes  were  alive  and  clear  of  care, 
But  well  he  knew  that  the  hour  was  come 
To  bid  good-bye  to  his  ancient  home. 

He  looked  on  garden,  wood,  and  hill. 
He  looked  on  the  lake,  sunny  and  still; 
The  last  of  earth  that  his  eyes  could  see 
Was  the  island  church  of  Orchardleigh. 

The  last  that  his  heart  could  understand 
Was  the  touch  of  the  tongue  that  licked  his 

hand: 
"Bury  the  dog  at  my  feet,"  he  said. 
And  his  voice  dropped,  and  the  Squire  was 

dead. 

Now  the  dog  was  a  hound  of  the  Danish 

breed. 
Staunch  to  love  and  strong  at  need: 

[7] 


To  Your  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

He  had  dragged  his  master  safe  to  shore 
When  the  tide  was  ebbing  at  Elsinore. 

From  that  day  forth,  as  reason  would. 
He  was  named  "Fidele,"  and  made  it  good: 
When  the  last  of  the  mourners  left  the  door 
Fidele  was  dead  on  the  chantry  floor. 

They  buried  him  there  at  his  master's  feet, 
And  all  that  heard  of  it  deemed  it  meet: 
The  story  went  the  round  for  years. 
Till  it  came  at  last  to  the  Bishop's  ears. 

Bishop  of  Bath  and  Wells  was  he. 

Lord  of  the  lords  of  Orchardleigh; 

And  he  wrote  to  the  Parson  the  strongest 

screed 
That  Bishop  may  write  or  Parson  read. 

The  sum  of  it  was  that  a  soulless  hound 
Was  known  to  be  buried  in  hallowed  ground : 

[  8  ] 


To  Tour  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

From  scandal  sore  the  Church  to  save 
They  must  take  the  dog  from  his  master's 
grave. 

The  heir  was  far  in  a  foreign  land. 
The  Parson  was  wax  to  my  Lord's  com- 
mand : 
He  sent  for  the  Sexton  and  bade  him  make 
A  lonely  grave  by  the  shore  of  the  lake. 

The  Sexton  sat  by  the  water's  brink 
Where  he  used  to  sit  when  he  used  to  think: 
He  reasoned  slow,  but  he  reasoned  it  out, 
And  his  argument  left  him  free  from  doubt. 

"A   Bishop,"   he   said,  "is  the  top  of  his 

trade  : 
But  there  's  others  can  give  him  a  start  with 

the  spade  : 
Yon  dog,  he  carried  the  Squire  ashore. 
And  a  Christian  could  n't  ha'  done  no  more.** 

[9] 


T^o  Your  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

The  grave  was  dug ;  the  mason  came 
And  carved  on  stone  Fidele's  name : 
But  the  dog  that  the  Sexton  laid  inside 
Was  a  dog  that  never  had  lived  or  died. 

So  the  Parson  was  praised,  and  the  scandal 

stayed, 
Till,  a  long  time  after,  the  church  decayed. 
And,  laying  the  floor  anew,  they  found 
In  the  tomb  of  the  Squire  the  bones  of  a 

hound. 

As  for  the  Bishop  of  Bath  and  Wells, 
No  more  of  him  the  story  tells ; 
Doubtless  he  lived  as  a  Prelate  and  Prince, 
And  died  and  was  buried  a  century  since. 

And  whether  his  view  was  right  or  wrong 
Has  little  to  do  with  this  my  song ; 
Something  we  owe  him,  you  must  allow; 
And  perhaps  he  has  changed  his  mind  by 
now. 

[  >o] 


To  Your  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

The  Squire  in  the  family  chantry  sleeps. 
The  marble  still  his  memory  keeps  : 
Remember,  when  the  name  you  spell, 
There  rest  Fidele's  bones  as  well. 

For  the  Sexton's  grave  you  need  not  search, 
'T  is  a  nameless  mound  by  the  island  church : 
An  ignorant  fellow,  of  humble  lot  — 
But  he  knew  one  thing  that  a  Bishop  did 
not. 


LEO 

From  The  Poems  of  Richard  Watson  Gilder 


By  permission  of  tlie  Publishers,  Houghton  Mifflin  Company 

Boston 


LEO 

Over   the   roofs   of  the  houses  I  hear  the 

barking  of  Leo  — 
Leo  the  shaggy,  the  lustrous,  the  giant,  the 

gentle  Newfoundland. 
Dark  are  his  eyes  as  the  night,  and  black  is 

his  hair  as  the  midnight ; 
Large  and  slow  is  his  tread  till  he  sees  his 

master  returning, 
Then  how  he  leaps  in  the  air,  with  motion 

ponderous,  frightening  ! 
Now,  as  I  pass  to  my  work,  I  hear  o'er  the 

roar  of  the  city  — 
Far  over  the  roofs  of  the  houses,  I  hear  the 

barking  of  Leo  ; 
For  me  he  is  moaning  and  crying,  for  me 

in  measure  sonorous 
He  raises  his  marvelous  voice,  for  me  he  is 

wailing  and  calling. 

[  -5] 


To  Your  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

None  can  assuage  his  grief,  tho'  but  for  a 

day  is  the  parting, 
Tho*  morn  after  morn  't  is  the  same,  tho' 

home  every  night  comes  his  master. 
Still  will  he  grieve  when  we  sever,  and  wild 

will  be  his  rejoicing 
When  at  night  his  master  returns  and  lays 

but  a  hand  on  his  forehead. 
No  lack  will  there  be  in  the  world  of  faith, 

of  love,  and  devotion, 
No  lack  for  me  and  for  mine,  while  Leo 

alone  is  living  — 
While  over  the  roofs  of  the  houses  I  hear 

the  barking  of  Leo. 


GEIST'S    GRAVE 

From  Poems  by  Matthew  Arnold 
Dramatic  and  Later  Poems 


By  permission  of  the  Publishers,  The  Macmillan  Company,  New  Vork 


GEIST'S    GRAVE 

Four  years!  —  and  didst  thou  stay  above 
The  ground,  which  hides  thee  now,  but 

four? 
And  all  that  life,  and  all  that  love. 
Were  crowded,  Geist!  into  no  more? 

Only  four  years  those  winning  ways. 
Which  make  me  for  thy  presence  yearn, 
Call'd  us  to  pet  thee  or  to  praise. 
Dear  little  friend!  at  every  turn? 

That  loving  heart,  that  patient  soul, 
Had  they  indeed  no  longer  span. 
To  run  their  course,  and  reach  their  goal. 
And  read  their  homily  to  man  ? 

That  liquid,  melancholy  eye. 

From  whose  pathetic,  soul-fed  springs 

[  19] 


To  Tour  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

Seem'd  surging  the  Virgilian  cry,* 
The  sense  of  tears  in  mortal  things  — 

That  steadfast,  mournful  strain,  consoled 

By  spirits  gloriously  gay. 

And  temper  of  heroic  mould  — 

What,  was  four  years  their  whole  short  day? 

Yes,  only  four!  —  and  not  the  course 
Of  all  the  centuries  yet  to  come. 
And  not  the  infinite  resource 
Of  Nature,  with  her  countless  sum 

Of  figures,  with  her  fulness  vast 
Of  new  creation  evermore. 
Can  ever  quite  repeat  the  past. 
Or  just  thy  little  self  restore. 

Stern  law  of  every  mortal  lot ! 

Which  man,  proud  man,  finds  hard  to  bear, 

*  Sunt  lacrima  rerum  ! 
[20] 


To  Tour  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

And  builds  himself  I  know  not  what 
Of  second  life  I  know  not  where. 

But  thou,  when  struck  thine  hour  to  go. 
On  us,  who  stood  despondent  by, 
A  meek  last  glance  of  love  didst  throw. 
And  humbly  lay  thee  down  to  die. 

Yet  would  we  keep  thee  in  our  heart  — 
Would  fix  our  favourite  on  the  scene. 
Nor  let  thee  utterly  depart 
And  be  as  if  thou  ne'er  hadst  been. 

And  so  there  rise  these  lines  of  verse 
On  lips  that  rarely  form  them  now; 
While  to  each  other  we  rehearse: 
Such  ways,  such  arts,  such  looks  hadst  thou ! 

We  stroke  thy  broad  brown  paws  again, 
We  bid  thee  to  thy  vacant  chair, 
We  greet  thee  by  the  window-pane. 
We  hear  thy  scuffle  on  the  stair. 

[  21  ] 


1^0  Tour  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

We  see  the  flaps  of  thy  large  ears 
Quick  raised  to  ask  which  way  we  go; 
Crossing  the  frozen  lake,  appears 
Thy  small  black  figure  on  the  snow! 

Nor  to  us  only  art  thou  dear 
Who  mourn  thee  in  thine  English  home; 
Thou  hast  thine  absent  master's  tear, 
Dropt  by  the  far  Australian  foam. 

Thy  memory  lasts  both  here  and  there, 
And  thou  shalt  live  as  long  as  we. 
And  after  that  —  thou  dost  not  care! 
In  us  was  all  the  world  to  thee. 

Yet,  fondly  zealous  for  thy  fame. 
Even  to  a  date  beyond  our  own 
We  strive  to  carry  down  thy  name. 
By  mounded  turf,  and  graven  stone. 

We  lay  thee,  close  within  our  reach. 
Here,  where  the  grass  is  smooth  and  warm, 

["  ] 


To  Your  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

Between  the  holly  and  the  beech. 
Where  oft  we  watch'd  thy  couchant  form. 


Asleep,  yet  lending  half  an  ear 
To  travellers  on  the  Portsmouth  road;- 
There  build  we  thee,  O  guardian  dear, 
Mark'd  with  a  stone,  thy  last  abode ! 


Then  some,  who  through  this  garden  pass. 
When  we  too,  like  thyself,  are  clay. 
Shall  see  thy  grave  upon  the  grass. 
And  stop  before  the  stone,  and  say: 

People  who  lived  here  long  ago 

L>id  by  this  stone  ^  it  seems,  intend 

To  name  for  future  tifnes  to  know 

The  dachs-hound,  Geisty  their  little  friend. 


THE    POWER    OF    THE    DOG 

From 

Jettons  and  Reactions 

BY 
RUDYARD    KIPLING 


By  permission  of  the  Publishers,  Doublkday,  Page  &  Compant 
Garden  City 


THE   POWER  OF  THE   DOG 

There  is  sorrow  enough  in  the  natural  way 
From  men  and  women  to  fill  our  day ; 
But  when  we  are  certain  of  sorrow  in  store. 
Why  do  we  always  arrange  for  more  ? 
Brothers  and  sisters^  I  bid  you  beware 
Oj  giving  your  heart  to  a  dog  to  tear. 

Buy  a  pup  and  your  money  will  buy 
Love  unflinching  that  cannot  lie  — 
Perfect  passion  and  worship  fed 
By  a  kick  in  the  ribs  or  a  pat  on  the  head. 

Nevertheless  it  is  hardly  fair 

To  risk  your  heart  for  a  dog  to  tear. 

When  the  fourteen  years  which  Nature  per- 
mits 
Are  closing  in  asthma,  or  tumour,  or  fits. 
And  the  vet's  unspoken  prescription  runs 
To  lethal  chambers  or  loaded  guns. 


1^0  Your  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

'Then  you  will Ji fid —  it 's  your  own  affair 
But  .   .   .  you  've  given  your  heart  to  a  dog  to 
tear. 

When  the  body  that   lived  at  your  single 

will 
When  the  whimper  of  welcome  is  stilled 

(how  still !) 
When  the  spirit  that  answered  your  every 

mood 
Is  gone  —  wherever  it  goes  —  for  good. 
You  will  discover  how  much  you  care. 
And  will  give  your  heart  to  a  dog  to  tear  I 

We  've  sorrow  enough  in  the  natural  way. 
When  it  comes  to  burying  Christian  clay. 
Our  loves  are  not  given,  but  only  lent. 
At  compound  interest  of  cent  per  cent. 
Though  it  is  not  always  the  case,  I  believe. 
That  the  longer  we  've  kept  'em,  the  more 
do  we  grieve : 

[28] 


To  Your  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

For,  when  debts  are  payable,  right  or  wrong, 
A  short-time  loan  is  as  bad  as  a  long  — 
So  why  in  Heaven  (^before  we  are  there  !\ 
Should  we  give  our  hearts  to  a  dog  to  tear  ? 


TO    RUFUS,    A    SPANIEL 

From  Crumbs  of  Pity 


BY 
R.    C.    LEHMANN 


By  permission  of  the  Author,  and  of  the  Publishers,  William 
Blackwood  &  Sons,  Edinburgh  &  London 


TO    RUFUS,   A   SPANIEL 

RuFUs,   a    bright    New  Year !     A   savoury 

stew, 
Bones,   broth   and  biscuits,   is  prepared  for 

you. 

See  how  it  steams  in  your  enamelled  dish. 
Mixed  in  each  part  according  to  your  wish. 

Hide  in  your  straw  the  bones  you  cannot 
crunch  — 

They  '11  come  in  handy  for  to-morrow's 
lunch  ; 

Abstract  with  care  each  tasty  scrap  of  meat, 

Remove  each  biscuit  to  a  fresh  retreat 

(A  dog,  I  judge,  would  deem  himself  dis- 
graced 

Who  ate  a  biscuit  where  he  found  it  placed) ; 

Then  nuzzle  round  and  make  your  final 
sweep. 

And  sleep,  replete,  your  after-dinner  sleep. 

I  33  ] 


To  Tour  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

High  in  our  hall  we  've  piled  the  fire  with 
logs 

For  you,  the  doyen  of  our  corps  of  dogs. 

There,  when  the  stroll  that  health  demands 
is  done. 

Your  right  to  ease  by  due  exertion  won. 

There  shall  you  come,  and  on  your  long- 
haired mat. 

Thrice  turning  round,  shall  tread  the  jungle 
flat. 

And,  rhythmically  snoring,  dream  away 

The  peaceful  evening  of  your  New  Year's 
day. 

Rufus  !   there  are  who  hesitate  to  own 
Merits,  they  say,  your  master  sees  alone. 
They  judge  you  stupid,  for  you  show  no  bent 
To  any  poodle-dog  accomplishment. 
Your  stubborn  nature  never  stooped  to  learn 
Tricks  by  which  mumming  dogs  their  bis- 
cuits earn. 

[34] 


To  Your  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

Men  mostly  find  you,  if  they  change  their 

seat, 
Couchant  obnoxious  to  their  blundering  feet ; 
Then,  when  a  door  is  closed,  you  steadily 
Misjudge  the  side  on  which  you  ought  to  be; 
Yelping  outside  when  all  your  friends  are  in. 
You  raise  the  echoes  with  your  ceaseless  din, 
Or,  always  wrong,  but  turn  and  turn  about. 
Howling  inside  when  all  the  world  is  out. 
They  scorn  your  gestures  and  interpret  ill 
Your  humble  signs  of  friendship  and  good- 
will; 
Laugh  at  your  gambols,  and   pursue  with 

jeers 
The   ringlets   clustered   on   your   spreading 

ears ; 
See  without  sympathy  your  sore  distress 
When  Ray  obtains  the  coveted  caress. 
And  you,  a  jealous  lump  of  growl  and  glare, 
Hide  from  the  world  your  head  beneath  a 
chair. 

[3i] 


To  Your  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

They  say  your  legs  are  bandy  —  so  they  are: 
Nature  so  formed  them  that  they  might  go 

far; 
They  cannot  brook  your  music ;  they  assail 
The  joyful  quiverings  of  your  stumpy  tail  — 
In  short,  in  one  anathema  confound 
Shape,   mind  and  heart,  and    all,  my  little 

hound. 
Well,  let  them  rail.   If,  since  your  life  began. 
Beyond  the  customary  lot  of  man 
Staunchness  was  yours;  if  of  your  faithful  heart 
Malice  and  scorn  could  never  claim  a  part ; 
If  in  your  master,  loving  while  you  live, 
You  own  no  fault  or  own  it  to  forgive ; 
If,  as  you  lay  your  head  upon  his  knee. 
Your  deep-drawn  sighs  proclaim  your  sym- 
pathy ; 
If  faith  and  friendship,  growing  with  your 

age, 
Speak  through   your  eyes  and  all  his  love 
engage ; 

[36  ] 


To  Tour  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

If  by  that  master's  wish  your  life  you  rule  — 
If  this  be  folly,  Rufus,  you  're  a  fool. 

Old  dog,  content  you;  Rufus,  have  no  fear: 
While  life  is  yours  and  mine  your  place  is 

here. 
And  when   the  day  shall  come,  as  come  it 

must, 
When  Rufus  goes  to  mingle  with  the  dust 
(If  Fate  ordains  that  you  shall  pass  before 
To  the  abhorred  and  sunless  Stygian  shore), 
I   think  old   Charon,  punting  through  the 

dark, 
Will  hear  a  sudden  friendly  little  bark ; 
And   on   the   shore   he  '11    mark  without  a 

frown 
A  flap-eared  doggie, bandy-legged  and  brown. 
He'll  take  you  in:  since  watermen  are  kind. 
He  'd  scorn  to  leave  my  little  dog  behind. 
He'll  ask  no  obol,  but  instal  you  there 
On  Styx's  further  bank  without  a  fare. 

[37] 


To  Tour  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

There   shall  you   snifF  his  cargoes  as  they 

come, 
And  droop  your  head,  and  turn,  and  still  be 

dumb  — 
Till  one  fine  day,  half  joyful,  half  in  fear. 
You  run  and  prick  a  recognising  ear. 
And  last,  oh,  rapture  !  leaping  to  his  hand. 
Salute  your  master  as  he  steps  to  land. 


TIM,    AN     IRISH    TERRIER 

From  Songs  from  Leinster 
BY  W.    M.    LETTS 


By  permission  of  the  Author,  and  of  the  Publisher 
David  McKay,  Philadelphia 


TIM,  AN   IRISH  TERRIER 

It  's  wonderful  dogs  they  're  breeding  now : 
Small  as  a  flea  or  large  as  a  cow ; 
But  my  old  lad  Tim  he  '11  never  be  bet 
By  any  dog  that  ever  he  met. 
"Come   on,"   says  he,    "for    I'm    not   kilt 
yet. 

No  matter  the  size  of  the  dog  he  '11  meet, 
Tim  trails  his  coat  the  length  o'  the  street. 
D'  ye  mind  his  scars  an'  his  ragged  ear. 
The  like  of  a  Dubhn  Fusilier  ? 
He  's  a  massacree  dog  that  knows  no  fear. 

But  he'd  stick  to  me  till  his  latest  breath; 
An'  he  'd  go  with  me  to  the  gates  of  death. 
He  'd  wait  for  a  thousand  years,  maybe. 
Scratching  the  door  an'  whining  for  me 
If  myself  were  inside  in  Purgatary. 

[41   ] 


To  Tour  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

So  I  laugh  when  I  hear  thim  make  it  plain 
That  dogs  and  men  never  meet  again. 
For  all  their  talk  who  'd  listen  to  thim, 
With  the  soul  in  the  shining  eyes  of  him  ? 
Would  God  be  wasting  a  dog  like  Tim  ? 


TO    A    TERRIER 

From  Green  Days  and  Blue  Days 

BY 
PATRICK    R.    CHALMERS 


By  permission  of  the  Author.    Published  by  Maxjnsel  &  Co.,  Ltd, 

Dublin 


TO  A  TERRIER 

Crib,  on  your  grave  beneath  the  chestnut 

boughs 
To-day  no  fragrance  falls  nor  summer  air. 
Only  a  master's  love  who  laid  you  there 
Perchance  may  warm  the  earth  'neath  which 

you  drowse 
In  dreams  from  which  no  dinner  gong  may 

rouse, 
Unwakeable,  though  close  the  rat  may  dare, 
Deaf,  though  the  rabbit  thump  in  playful 

scare, 
Silent,  though  twenty  tabbies  pay  their  vows. 
And  yet,  mayhap,  some  night  when  shadows 

pass. 
And  from  the  fir  the  brown  owl  hoots  on 

high. 
That  should  one  whistle  'neath  a  favoring 

star 

[45  ] 


To  Tour  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

Your  small  white  shade  shall  patter  o'er  the 

grass. 
Questing  for  him  you  loved  o'  days  gone  by, 
Ere  Death  the  Dog -Thief  carried  you  afar! 


RHAPSODY    ON 

A  dog's   intelligence 

From  Rhymes  of  Home 
BY    EURGES    JOHNSON 


By  permission  of  the  Author,  and  of  the  Publishers 
G.  P,  Putnam's  Sons,  New  York 


RHAPSODY    ON    A    DOG'S 
INTELLIGENCE 

Dear  dog,  that  seems  to  stand  and  gravely 

brood 
Upon  the  broad  veranda  of  our  home 
With  soulful  eyes  that  gaze  into  the  gloam  — 
With  speaking  tail  that  registers  thy  mood, — 
Men  say  thou  hast  no  ratiocination; 
Methinks  there  is  a  clever  imitation. 

Men  say  again  thy  kindred  have  no  souls, 

And  sin  is  but  an  attribute  of  men ; 

Say,  is  it  chance  alone  that  bids  thee, 
then, 

Choose  only  garden  spots  for  digging  holes  ? 

Why  dost  thou  filch  some  fragment  of  the 
cooking 

At  times  when  no  one  seemeth  to  be  look- 
ing? 

[49] 


To  Tour  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 


Was  there  an  early  Adam  of  thy  race. 
And  brindled  Eve,  the  mother  of  thy  house. 
Who  shared  some  purloined   chicken  with 

her  spouse. 
Thus  causing  all  thy  tribe  to  fall  from  grace? 
If  fleas  dwelt  in  the  garden  of  that  Adam 
Perhaps  thy  sinless  parents  never  had  'em. 

This  morn  thou  cam'st  a-slinking  through 

the  door. 
Avoiding  eyes,  and  some  dark  corner  sought, 
And  though  no  accusation  filled  our  thought. 
Thy  tail,  apologetic,  thumped  the  floor. 
Who  claims  thou  hast  no  conscience,  argues 

vainly. 
For  I  have  seen  its  symptoms  very  plainly. 

What  leads  thee   to  forsake  thy  board  and 

bed 
On  days  that  are  devoted  to  thy  bath  ? 
For  if  it  is  not  reason  yet  it  hath 

Cio] 


To  Your  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

Appearance  of  desire  to  plan  ahead  ! 

The  sage  who  claims  thy  brain  and  soul  be 

wizen 
Would  do  quite  well  to  swap  thy  head  for 

his'n. 


FRANCES 

BY    RICHARD    WIGHTMAN 


By  permission  of  the  Author  and  from 
Tht  jimtrican  Magaxine 


FRANCES 

You  were  a  dog,  Frances,  a  dog. 
And  I  was  just  a  man. 
The  Universal  Plan,  — 
Well,  't  would  have  lacked  something 
Had  it  lacked  you. 
Somehow  you  fitted  in  like  a  far  star 
Where  the  vast  spaces  are ; 
Or  like  a  grass-blade 
Which  helps  the  meadow 
To  be  a  meadow  ; 
Or  like  a  song  which  kills  a  sigh 
And  sings  itself  on  and  on 
Till  all  the  world  is  full  of  it. 
You  were  the  real  thing,  Frances,  a  soul! 
Encarcassed,  yes,  but  still  a  soul 
With  feeling  and  regard  and  capable  of 
woe. 

[55] 


To  Your  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

Oh  yes  I  know,  you  were  a  dog,  but  I  was 

just  a  man. 
I  did  not  buy  you,  no,  you  simply  came. 
Lost,  and  squatted  on  my  door-step 
With  that  wide  strap  about  your  neck, — 
A  worn  one  with  a  huge  buckle. 
When  bigger  dogs  pitched  onto  you 
You  stood  your  ground  and  gave  them  all 

you  had 
And  took  your  wounds  unwhimpering,  but 

hid  them. 
My,  but  you  were  game! 
You  were  fine-haired 
And  marked  with  Princeton  colors. 
Black  and  deep  yellow. 
No  other  fellow 
Could  make  you  follow  him, 
For  you  had  chosen  me  to  be  your  pal. 
My  whistle  was  your  law. 
You  put  you  paw 
Upon  my  palm 

[  56] 


To  Tour  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

And  in  your  calm. 

Deep  eyes  was  writ 

The  promise  of  long  comradeship, 

When  I  came  home  from  work. 

Late  and  ill-tempered, 

Always  I  heard  the  patter  of  your  feet  upon 

the  oaken  stairs ; 
Your  nose  was  at  the  door-crack ; 
And  whether  I  'd   been   bad  or  good   that 

day 
You  fawned,  and  loved  me  just  the  same. 
It  was  your  way  to  understand ; 
And  if  I  struck  you  my  harsh  hand 
Was  wet  with  your  caresses. 
You  took  my  leavings,  crumb  and  bone, 
And  stuck  by  me  through  thick  and  thin. 
You  were  my  kin. 
And  then  one  day  you  died. 
At  least  that  's  what  they  said. 
There  was  a  box  and 
You  were  in  it,  still, 

[  57  ] 


To  Tour  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

With  a  sprig  of  myrtle  and  your  leash  and 

blanket, 
And  put  deep  ; 

But  though  you  sleep  and  ever  sleep 
I  sense  you  at  my  heels  ! 


ROGER    AND    I 

BY   REV.  JULIAN  S.   CUTLER 

From  The  Boston  Evening  Transcript 


By  permission  of  the  Author  and  of  The  Boston  Evening  Transcript 


ROGER  AND  I 

Well,  Roger,  my  dear  old  doggie,  they  say 

that  your  race  is  run; 
And  our  jolly  tramps  together  up  and  down 

the  world  are  done; 
You  're  only  a  dog,  old  fellow,  a  dog,  and 

you  've  had  your  day; 
But  never   a   friend   of  all    my  friends  has 

been  truer  than  you  alway. 

We  've  had  glorious  times  together  in  the 

fields  and  pastures  fair  ; 
In  storm  and  sunny  weather  we  have  romped 

without  a  care ; 
And  however  men  have  treated  me,  though 

foul  or  fair  their  deal  — 
However  many  the  friends  that  failed,  I  've 

found  you  true  as  steel. 
•    [6.  ] 


To  Your  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

That 's  right,  my  dear  old  fellow,  look  up 

with  your  knowing  eye. 
And  lick  my  hand  with  your  loving  tongue 

that  never  has  told  a  lie ; 
And  don't  be  afraid,  old  doggie,  if  your  time 

has  come  to  go. 
For  somewhere  out  in  the  great  Unknown 

there  's  a  place  for  you,  I  know. 

Then   don't  you  worry,  old  Comrade ;  and 

don't  you  fear  to  die; 
For  out  in  that  fairer  country  I  will  find 

you  by  and  by; 
And  I  '11  stand  by  you,  old  fellow,  and  our 

love  will  surely  win. 
For  never  a  heaven  shall  harbor  me  where 

they  won't  let  Roger  in. 

When  I  reach  that  city  glorious,  behind  the 

waiting  dark. 
Just  come  and  stand  outside  the  gate,  and 

wag  your  tail  and  bark  — 

[62    ] 


To  Your  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

I  '11  hear  your  voice,  and  I  '11  know  it,  and 
I  '11  come  to  the  gate  and  say : 

"  Saint  Peter,  that  's  my  dog  out  there,  you 
must  let  him  come  this  way." 

And  then  if  the  saint  refuses,  I  '11  go  to  the 

One  above. 
And  say  :   "  Old  Roger  is  at  the  gate,  with 

his  heart  brim  full  of  love  ; 
And  there  is  n't  a  shining  angel,  of  all  the 

heavenly  band. 
Who  ever  lived  a  nobler  life  than  he  in  the 

earthly  land." 

Then  I  know  the  gate  will  open,  and  you 

will  come  frisking  in, 
And  we  '11  roam  fair  fields  together,  in  that 

country  free  from  sin. 
So  never  you  mind,  old  Roger,  if  your  time 

has  come  to  go ; 
You  've  been  true  to  me,  I  '11  be  true  to  you 

—  and  the  Lord  is  good,  we  know. 

[63] 


To  Your  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

You  're  only  a  dog,  old  fellow  ;  a  dog,  and 

you've  had  your  day  — 
Well,  I'm    getting  there    myself,   old  boy, 

and  I  have  n't  long  to  stay  ; 
But  you've  stood  by  me,  old  Comrade,  and 

I  'm  bound  to  stand  by  you ; 
So  don't  you  worry,  old  Roger,  for  our  love 

will  pull  us  through. 


"SIR     BAT-EARS 

BY 

MRS.    EDEN 
From 
Punch 


^» 


By  permission  of  the  Author,  and  special  permission  of  the 
Proprietors  of  London  Punch 


*'SIR    BAT-EARS" 

Sir  Bat-ears  was  a  dog  of  birth 

And  bred  in  Aberdeen, 

But  he  favoured  not  his  noble  kin 

And  so  his  lot  is  mean, 

And  Sir  Bat-ears  sits  by  the  almshouses 

On  the  stones  with  grass  between. 

Under  the  ancient  archway 
His  pleasure  is  to  wait 
Between  the  two  stone  pineapples 
That  flank  the  weathered  gate; 

And  old,  old  alms-persons  go  by, 
All  rusty,  bent  and  black, 
"  Good-day,  good-day.  Sir  Bat-ears," 
They  say  and  stroke  his  back. 

And  old,  old  alms-persons  go  by. 
Shaking  and  well-nigh  dead, 

[67] 


1^0  Your  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

"  Good-night,  good-night,  Sir  Bat-ears !  " 
They  say  and  pat  his  head. 

So  courted  and  considered 
He  sits  out  hour  by  hour. 
Benignant  in  the  sunshine 
And  prudent  in  the  shower. 

(Nay,  stoutly  can  he  stand  a  storm 
And  stiffly  breast  the  rain. 
That  rising  when  the  cloud  is  gone 
He  leaves  a  circle  of  dry  stone 
Whereon  to  sit  again.) 

A  dozen  little  door  steps 
Under  the  arch  are  seen, 
A  dozen  aged  alms-persons 
To  keep  them  bright  and  clean  : 

Two  wrinkled  hands  to  scour  each  step 
With  a  square  of  yellow  stone  — 

[68  ] 


To  Tour  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

But  print-marks  of  Sir  Bat-ears'  paws 
Bespeckle  every  one. 

And  little  eats  an  alms-person, 
But,  though  his  board  be  bare. 
There  never  lacks  a  bone  of  the  best 
To  be  Sir  Bat-ears'  share. 

Mendicant  muzzle  and  shrewd  nose. 

He  quests  from  door  to  door ; 

Their  grace  they  say  —  his  shadow  gray 

Is  instant  on  the  floor, 

Humblest  of  all  the  dogs  there  be, 

A  pensioner  of  the  poor. 


CLUNY 

BY    WILLIAM    CROSWELL    DOANE 
From  The  Boston  Evening  Transcript 


By  permission 


CLUNY 

I  AM  quite  sure  he  thinks  that  I  am  God  — 
Since  He  is  God  on  whom  each  one  depends 
For   Hfe,   and   all    things    that   His   bounty 

sends  — 
My  dear  old  dog,  most  constant  of  all  friends  ; 
Not  quick  to  mind,  but  quicker  far  than  I 
To  Him  whom  God  I  know  and  own ;  his  eye 
Deep  brown  and  liquid,  watches  for  my  nod; 
He  is  more  patient  underneath  the  rod 
Than  I,  when  God  His  wise  corrections  sends. 
He  looks  love  at   me,  deep  as   words   e'er 

spake ; 
And  from  me  never  crumb  or  sup  will  take 
But  he  wags  thanks  with  his  most  vocal  tail ; 
And  when  some  crashing  noise  wakes  all  his 

fear 
He  is  content  and  quiet  if  I  'm  near, 
Secure  that  my  protection  will  prevail ; 

[73  ] 


To  Your  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

So,  faithful,  mindful,  thankful,  trustful,  he 
Tells  me  what  I  unto  my  God  should  be. 

May  24-25,  1902. 

He  had  lived  out  his  life,  but  not  his  love ; 
Daily  up  steep  and  weary  stair  he  came. 
His  big   heart  bursting  with  the  strain,  to 

prove 
His  loneliness  without  me.  Just  the  same 
Old  word  of  greeting  beamed  in  his  deep  eye, 
With  a  new  look  of  wonder  in  it,  asking  why 
"The  whole  creation  groans  and  travails." 

He 
And  I  there  faced  the  mystery  of  pain. 
Finding  me  dumb  and  helpless,  down  again 
He  went,  unanswered,  with  the  dawn  to  die, 
And  find  the  mystery  opened  with  the  key, 
**The   creature  from   corruption's   bondage 

free." 


LADDIE 

From  America  the  Beautiful 
and  Other  Poems 

BY    KATHARINE    LEE    BATES 


By  permission  of  the  Author,  ana  of  the  Publishers 
Thomas  Y.  Crovvell  Company,  New  York 


LADDIE 

Lowly  the  soul  that  waits 
At  the  white,  celestial  gates, 
A  threshold  soul  to  greet 
Beloved  feet. 

Down  the  streets  that  are  beams  of  sun 
Cherubim  children  run ; 
They  welcome  it  from  the  wall ; 
Their  voices  call. 

But  the  Warder  saith  :  "  Nay,  this 
Is  the  City  of  Holy  Bliss. 
What  claim  canst  thou  make  good 
To  angelhood?" 

"Joy,"  answereth  it  from  eyes 
That  are  amber  ecstasies, 
Listening,  alert,  elate. 
Before  the  gate. 

[77] 


Tl^o  Tour  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

Oh^  how  the  frolic  feet 
On  lonely  memory  beat! 
What  rapture  in  a  run 
'  Twixt  snow  and  sun  ! 

"  Nay,  brother  of  the  sod, 
What  part  hast  thou  in  God  ? 
What  spirit  art  thou  of?" 
It  answers  :   "  Love," 

Lifting  its  head,  no  less 
Cajoling  a  caress. 
Our  winsome  collie  wraith. 
Than  in  glad  faith 

The  door  will  open  wide, 
Or  kind  voice  bid  :   "  Abide, 
A  threshold  soul  to  greet 
The  longed-for  feet." 

Jh^  Keeper  of  the  Portal^ 
If  Love  be  not  immortal^ 
Ifjoy  be  not  divine^ 
What  prayer  is  mine  ? 


DAVY 

BY 
LOUISE    IMOGEN    GUINEY 

From 
Century  Magazine 


By  permission  of  the  Author,  and  of  The  Century  Compant 
New  York 


DAVY 

Davy,  her  knight,  her  dear,  was  dead: 
Low  in  dust  was  the  silken  head. 

"Isn't  there  heaven," 

(She  was  but  seven) 
"Isn't  there"  (sobbing)  "for  dogs?"  she 
said. 

"  Man  is  immortal,  sage  or  fool : 
Animals  end,  by  different  rule.'* 

So  had  they  prated 

Of  things  created. 
An  hour  before,  in  her  Sunday-school. 

Trusty  and  glad  and  true,  who  could 
Match  her  hero  of  hardihood, 

Rancorless,  selfless, 

Prideless,  pelfless  ?  — 
How  I  should  like  to  be  half  so  good ! 

[8.  ] 


To  Tour  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

Firebrand  eye  and  icicle  nose; 
Ear  inwrought  like  a  guelder-rose ; 

All  the  sweet  wavy 

Beauty  of  Davy ;  — 
Sad,  not  to  answer  whither  it  goes ! 

"Isn't  there  heaven  for  dogs  that's  dead? 
God  made  Davy,  out  of  His  head  : 

If  He  unmake  him. 

Does  n't  He  take  him  ? 
Why  should  He  throw  him  away?"  she 
said. 

The  birds  were  busy,  the  brook  was  gay, 
But  the  little  hand  was  in  mine  all  day. 

Nothing  could  bury 

That  infinite  query : 
"Davy,  —  would  God  throw  him  away?" 


A    FRIEND 

BY    ZITELLA    COCKE 

From  The  Youth's  Companion 


By  per.T.ission  of  the  Author  and  cf  The  VoutV.  Comf  anion 


A  FRIEND 

"Your  invitation,  sir,  to  dine 

With  you  to-night  I  must  decline 

Because  to-day  I  lost  a  friend  — 

A  friend  long  known  and  loved ; "  thus 

penned 
The  good  Sir  Walter,  aptly  named 
The  Wizard  of  the  North,  and  famed 
For  truest,  gentlest  heart,  among 
The  homes  that  love  the  English  tongue. 
Great  heart,  that  felt  the  soul  of  things 
In  all  its  high  imaginings. 
And  showed,  mid  vexing  stress  and  strife 
Of  worldly  cares,  a  hero's  life  ! 
An  humble  friend  it  was  he  loved, 
And  oft  together  they  had  roved 
The  heather  hills  and  sweet  brae  side, 
Or  braved  the  rushing  river's  tide. 
And  many  a  frosty  winter  night 
Sat  musing  by  the  warm  firelight  — 

[85] 


T^o  Your  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

A  faithful  friend,  whom  chance  and  change 

Of  fleeting  years  could  ne'er  estrange. 

For  he  who  once  has  gained  the  love 

And  friendship  of  a  dog  shall  prove 

Thro'  joy  and  sorrow  to  the  end 

The  deep  devotion  of  a  friend. 

What  is  it  ?  More  than  instinct  fine, 

This  something  man  cannot  divine. 

Which  speaks  from  eyes  where  lips  are  mute, 

Which  makes  the  creature  we  name  brute 

The  noblest  pattern  we  may  see 

Of  loving,  lasting  loyalty. 

We  dare  not  call  it  mind  or  soul, 

We  know  not  what  or  where  its  goal. 

But  aye  we  know  its  little  span 

Of  life  spells  large  —  Friendship  to  man; 

Nor  wonder  Scott,  in  grief,  should  say, 

"  I  lost  a  much-loved  friend  to-day  !  " 


THE     BATH 

BY 

R.    C.    LEHMANN 
From 
Punch 


By  permission  of  the  Autlior,  and  special  permission  of  the 
Proprietors  of  London  Punch 


THE   BATH 

Hang  garlands  on  the  bathroom  door ; 

Let  all  the  passages  be  spruce ; 
For,  lo,  the  victim  comes  once  more, 

And,  ah,  he  struggles  like  the  deuce ! 

Bring  soaps  of  many  scented  sorts  ; 

Let  girls  in  pinafores  attend. 
With  John,  their  brother,  in  his  shorts. 

To  wash  their  dusky  little  friend. 

Their  little  friend,  the  dusky  dog. 
Short-legged  and  very  obstinate. 

Faced  like  a  much-offended  frog, 
And  fighting  hard  against  his  fate. 

No  Briton  he  !   From  palace-born 
Chinese  patricians  he  descends ; 

He  keeps  their  high  ancestral  scorn; 
His  spirit  breaks,  but  never  bends. 

[  89] 


7i  Tour  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 


Our  water-ways  he  fain  would  'scape ; 

He  hates  the  customary  bath 
That  thins  his  tail  and  spoils  his  shape. 

And  turns  him  to  a  fur-clad  lath  ; 

And,  seeing  that  the  Pekinese 

Have  lustrous  eyes  that  bulge  like  buds. 
He  fain  would  save  such  eyes  as  these, 

Their  owner's  pride,  from  British  suds. 

Vain  are  his  protests  —  in  he  goes. 

His  young  barbarians  crowd  around ; 
They  soap  his  paws,  they  soap  his  nose ; 

They  soap  wherever  fur  is  found. 

And  soon,  still  laughing,  they  extract 
His  limpness  from  the  darkling  tide  ; 

They  make  the  towel's  roughness  act 
On  back  and  head  and  dripping  side. 

They  shout  and  rub  and  rub  and  shout  — 
He  deprecates  their  odious  glee  — 

[  90] 


Ti?  Your  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

Until  at  last  they  turn  him  out, 
A  damp  gigantic  bumble-bee. 

Released,  he  barks  and  rolls,  and  speeds 
From  lawn  to  lawn,  from  path  to  path. 

And  in  one  glorious  minute  needs 
More  soapsuds  and  another  bath. 


SIX    FEET 


From  a  friend 


"SIX   FEET" 

"  My  little  rough  dog  and  I 

Live  a  life  that  is  rather  rare. 

We  have  so  many  good  walks  to  take 

And  so  few  hard  things  to  bear ; 

So  much  that  gladdens  and  recreates. 

So  little  of  wear  and  tear." 

"  Sometimes  it  blows  and  rains, 

But  still  the  six  feet  ply 

No  care  at  all  to  the  following  four 

If  the  leading  two  know  why. 

'T  is  a  pleasure  to  have  six  feet,  we  think. 

My  little  rough  dog  and  I." 

"  And  we  travel  all  one  way ; 
'T  is  a  thing  we  should  never  do. 
To  reckon  the  two  without  the  four. 
Or  the  four  without  the  two. 

[95] 


To  Your  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

It  would  not  be  right  if  anyone  tried, 
Because  it  would  not  be  true." 


"  And  who  shall  look  up  and  say- 
That  it  ought  not  so  to  be, 
Tho'  the  earth  is  Heaven  enough  for 

him. 
Is  it  less  than  that  to  me? 
For  a  little  rough  dog  can  make 
A  joy  that  enters  eternity!  '* 


WILHELM 

BY 

PATRICK    R.    CHALMERS 

From 

Punch 


By  permission  of  the  Author,  and  special  permission  of  the 
Proprietors  of  London  Punch 


WILHELM 

**  No  good  thing  comes  from  out  of  Kaiser- 
land," 
Says  Phyllis ;  but  beside  the  fire  I  note 
One  Wilhelm,  sleek  in  tawny  gold  of  coat. 
Most  satin-smooth  to  the  caresser's  hand. 

A  velvet  mien ;  an  eye  of  amber,  full 

Of  that  which  keeps  the  faith  with  us  for 

life; 
Lover   of  meal   times ;    hater   of  yard-dog 

strife ; 
Lordlv,  with  silken  ears  most  strokeable. 

Familiar  on  the  hearth,  refuting  her, 
He  sits,  the  antic-pawed,  the  proven  friend. 
The  whimsical,  the  grave  and  reverend  — 
Wilhelm  the  Dachs  from  out  of  Hanover. 

[99] 


AN    OLD    DOG 

BY 

CELIA    DUFFIN 
From 

The  Spectator 


By  permission  of  the  Author,  the  London  Spectator^  and 
Maunsel  and  Company,  Ltd.  Dublin 


AN   OLD   DOG 

Now  that  no  shrill  hunting  horn 
Can  arouse  me  at  the  morn, 
Deaf  I  lie  the  long  day  through, 
Dreaming  firelight  dreams  of  you  ; 
Waiting,  patient  through  it  all. 
Till  the  greater  Huntsman  call. 

If  we  are,  as  people  say. 
But  the  creatures  of  a  day. 
Let  me  live,  when  we  must  part, 
A  little  longer  in  your  heart. 
You  were  all  the  God  I  knew, 
I  was  faithful  unto  you. 


[  103  ] 


REMARKS    TO 
MY    GROWN-UP    PUP 

From  Rhymes  of  Home 
BY    BURGES    JOHNSON 


By  permission  of  the  Author,  and  of  the  Publishers 
G,  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  New  York 


REMARKS  TO  MY  GROWN-UP  PUP 

By  rules  of  fitness  and  of  tense. 

By  all  old  canine  precedents. 

Oh,  Adult  Dog,  the  time  is  up 

When  I  may  fondly  call  you  Pup. 

The  years  have  sped  since  first  you  stood 

In  straddle-legged  puppyhood,  — 

A  watch-pup,  proud  of  your  renown. 

Who  barked  so  hard  you  tumbled  down. 

In  Age's  gain  and  Youth's  retreat 

You've  found  more  team-work  for  your  feet. 

You  drool  a  soup9on  less,  and  hark ! 

There's  fuller  meaning  to  your  bark. 

But  answer  fairly,  whilom  pup. 

Are  these  full  proof  of  growing  up  ? 

I  heard  an  elephantine  tread 
That  jarred  the  rafters  overhead  : 
Who  leaped  in  mad  abandon  there 

[  107  ] 


To  Your  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

And  tossed  my  slippers  in  the  air  ? 

Whoy  sitting  gravely  on  the  rug, 

Espied  a  microscopic  bug 

And  stalked  it,  gaining  bit  by  bit,  — 

Then  leapt  in  air  and  fell  on  it  ? 

PFho  gallops  madly  down  the  breeze 

Pursuing  specks  that  no  one  sees. 

Then  finds  some  ancient  boot  instead 

And  worries  it  till  it  is  dead  ? 

/  have  no  adult  friends  who  choose 

To  gnaw  the  shoe-strings  from  my  shoes, — 

Who  eat  up  twine  and  paper  scraps 

And  bark  while  they  are  taking  naps. 

Oh  Dog,  you  offer  every  proof 

That  stately  age  yet  holds  aloof. 

Grown  up  ?  There  's  meaning  in  the  phrase 

Of  dignity  as  well  as  days. 

Oh  why  such  size,  beloved  pup?  — 

You  've  grown  enough,  but  not  grown  up. 


AN    EXTRACT    FROM 

INSCRIPTION    ON    THE 

MONUMENT    OF 

A    NEWFOUNDLAND    DOG 

BY    LORD    BYRON 


AN  EXTRACT  FROM 

INSCRIPTION  ON  THE 

MONUMENT  OF 

A  NEWFOUNDLAND  DOG 

.   .   .  **  In  life  the  firmest  friend, 
The  first  to  welcome,  foremost  to  defend. 
Whose  honest  heart  is  still  his  master's  own, 
Who  labours,  fights,  lives,  breathes  for  him 
alone." 

"  Near  this  spot 
Are  deposited  the  Remains  of  one 
Who  possessed  Beauty  without  Vanity, 
Strength  without  Insolence, 
Courage  without  Ferocity, 
And  all    the  Virtues   of  Man  without    his 

Vices. 
This   Praise,   which   would   be  unmeaning 
Flattery 

[  I"  ] 


To  Tour  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 


If  inscribed  over  human  ashes. 

Is  but  a  just  tribute  to  the  Memory  of 

Boatswain,  a  Dog, 

Who  was  born  at  Newfoundland,  May,  i  803, 

And  died  at  Newstead  Abbey,  Nov.  18,1808." 


TO    TIM,  AN    IRISH    TERRIER 


BY 
W.   M.  LETTS 


By  permission  ofttiC  Author  and  pf  tbe  IVestminster  Jaxette,  London 


TO    TIM,  AN    IRISH    TERRIER 

0  JEWEL  of  my  heart,  I  sing  your  praise. 
Though  you  who  are,  alas!  of  middle  age 
Have  never  been  to  school,  and  cannot  read 
The  weary  printed  page. 

1  sing  your   eyes,   two   pools  in   shadowed 

streams. 
Where  your  soul  shines  in  depths  of  sunny 

brown. 
Alertly  raised  to  read  my  every  mood 
Or  thoughtfully  cast  down. 

I  sing  the  little  nose,  so  glossy  wet. 
The  well-trained  sentry  to  your  eager  mind, 
So  swift  to  catch  the  delicate  glad  scent 
Of  rabbits  on  the  wind. 

Ah,  fair  to  me  your  wheaten-coloured  coat. 
And  fair  the  darker  velvet  of  your  ear, 

[  »5] 


71?  Your  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

Ragged  and  scarred  with  old  hostilities 
That  never  taught  you  fear. 

But  oh  !  your  heart,  where  my  unworthiness 
Is  made  perfection  by  love's  alchemy, 
How  often  does  your  doghood's  faith  cry 

shame 
To  my  inconstancy. 

At  last  I  know  the  hunter  Death  will  come 
And  whistle  low  the  call  you  must  obey. 
So  you  will  leave  me,  comrade  of  my  heart, 
To  take  a  lonely  way. 

Some  tell  me,  Tim,  we  shall  not  meet  again, 
But  for  their  loveless  logic  need  w^e  care  ?  — 
If  I  should  win  to  Heav'n's  gate  I  know 
Tou  will  be  waiting  there. 


MY    DOG 


BY 
ANNA    HADLEY    MIDDLEMAS 


By  permission  of  the  Author  and  of  T^'  Bosttn 
Evening  Transcript 


MY  DOG 

He's  just  plain  yellow:  no  "blue-ribbon" 
breed. 

In  disposition — well,  a  trifle  gruff 

Outside  his  "tried  and  true."  His  coat  is 
rough. 

To  bark  at  night  and  sleep  by  day,  his  creed. 

Yet,  when  his  soft  brown  eyes  so  dumbly  plead 

For  one  caress  from  my  too-busy  hand, 

I  wonder  from  what  far  and  unknown  land 

Came  the  true  soul,  which  in  his  gaze  I  read. 

Whence  all  his  loyalty  and  faithful  zeal  ? 

Why  does  he  share  my  joyous  mood,  and  gay  ? 

Why  mourn  with  me,  when  I  perchance  do 
mourn  ? 

When  hunger-pressed,  why  scorn  a  bounte- 
ous meal 

That  by  my  side  he  may  pursue  his  way  ? 

Whence  came  his  noble  soul,  and  where  its 
bourn? 

[  "9] 


"WITHOUT    ARE    DOGS 

BY 
EDWARD  A.   CHURCH 


By  permission  of  the  Author  and  of  the  Century  Magaxine 


"WITHOUT  ARE  DOGS" 

If,  through  some  wondrous  miracle  of  grace, 
To  the  Celestial  City  I  might  win, 
And  find  upon  the  golden  pavement  place. 
The  gates  of  pearl  within  ; 

In  some  sweet  pausing  of  the  immortal  song 
To  which  the  choiring  Seraphim  give  birth, 
Should  I  not  for  that  humbler  greeting  long 
Known  in  the  dumb  companionships  of  earth  ? 

Friends  whom  the  softest  whistle  of  my  call 
Brought  to  my  side  in  love  that  knew  no 

doubt, 
Would  I  not  seek  to  cross  the  jasper  wall 
If  haply  I  might  find  you  there  "without"  ? 


[  123  ] 


YOU   RE    A    DOG 

BY 

C.   L.   OILMAN 


By  permission  of  the  Author  and  of  Outing  Publishing  Co.,  N,  Y. 


YOU'RE  A  DOG 

At  the  kennel  where  they  bred  you  they 
were  raising  fancy  pets. 
Yellow  did  n't  matter,  so  the  blood  was 
blue. 
But  the  Red  Gods  mixed  a  medicine  that 
cancelled  all  their  bets  — 
Make  your  tail   say  "thanks,"   they've 
made  a  dog  of  you. 

You  have  heard  the  wolf-pack  howling  and 
have  barked  a  full  defiance; 
You  have  chased  the  moose  and  routed 
out  the  deer ; 
You  have  worked  and  played  and  lived  with 
man  in  honorable  alliance. 
You  have  shared  his  tent  and  campfire  as 
his  peer. 

[  127  ] 


To  Tour  Dog  and  to  My  D 


^g 


When  you   might  have  copped  the  ribbon 
you  have  worn  the  harness-collar. 
Pulling  thrice  your  weight  through  brush 
and  slush  and  bog. 
Sure,  you  might  have  been  a  ''  champion,'* 
without  value  save  the  dollar. 
But  the  Red  Gods  made  you  priceless  — 
YOU'RE  A  DOG! 


A    GENTLEMAN 

From 

New  Orleans  Times -Picayune 


By  permission  of  Nc-w  Orlean<  Timei-Pkayuni 


1 


A  GENTLEMAN 

I  OWN  a  dog  who  is  a  gentleman ; 
By  birth  most  surely,  since  the  creature  can 
Boast  of  a  pedigree  the  like  of  which 
Holds  not  a  Howard  or  a  Metternich. 

By   breeding.      Since  the  walks  of  life  he 

trod, 
He  never  wagged  an  unkind  talk  abroad. 
He  never  snubbed  a  nameless  cur  because 
Without  a  friend  or  credit  card  he  was. 

By  pride.   He  looks  you  squarely  in  the  face 
Unshrinking  and  without  a  single  trace 
Of  either  diffidence  or  arrogant 
Assertion  such  as  upstarts  often  flaunt. 

By  tenderness.  The  littlest  girl  may  tear 
With  absolute  impunity  his  hair, 

[  >3i  ] 


To  Your  Dog  a?id  to  My  Dog 


And  pinch  his  silken  flowing  ears  the  while 
He  smiles  upon  her  —  yes,  I've  seen  him 
smile. 

By  loyalty.    No  truer  friend  than  he 

Has  come  to  prove  his  friendship's  worth 

to  me. 
He  does  not   fear  the  master  —  knows  no 

fear  — 
But  loves  the  man  who  is  his  master  here. 

By  countenance.   If  there  be  nobler  eyes, 
More  full  of  honor  and  of  honesties, 
In  finer  head,  on  broader  shoulders  found  — 
Then  have  I  never  met  the  man  or  hound. 
Here  is  the  motto  of  my  lifeboat's  log : 
"  God  grant  I  may  be  worthy  of  my  dog  !  " 


MY    DOG 

BY 
ST.  JOHN   LUCAS 


MY   DOG 

The  Curate  thinks  you  have  no  soul: 
I  know  that  he  has  none.   But  you, 
Dear  friend  !  whose  solemn  self-control 
In  our  four-square,  familiar  pew, 

Was  pattern  to  my  youth  —  whose  bark 
Called  me  in  summer  dawns  to  rove  — 
Have  you  gone  down  into  the  dark 
Where  none  is  welcome,  none  may  love? 

I  will  not  think  those  good  brown  eyes 
Have  spent  their  light  of  truth  so  soon. 
But  in  some  canine  Paradise 
Your  wraith,  I  know,  rebukes  the  moon. 

And  quarters  every  plain  and  hill. 
Seeking  its  master  —  As  for  me. 
This  prayer  at  least  the  gods  fulfil: 
That  when  I  pass  the  flood  and  see 

[  '35] 


To  Your  Dog  a7td  to  My  Dog 

Old  Charon  by  the  Stygian  coast 
Take  toll  of  all  the  shades  who  land. 
Your  little,  faithful,  barking  ghost 
May  leap  to  lick  my  phantom  hand. 


TO    SCOTT 

(A  collie,  for  n'we  years  our  friend) 

BY 
W.   M.   LETTS 


By  permission  of  the  Author  and  of  the  Westminster  Gaxette,  London 


TO    SCOTT 

(A  collie,  for  nine  years  our  friend) 

Old  friend,  your  place  is  empty  now.   No 

more 
Shall  we  obey  the  imperious  deep-mouthed 

call 
That   begged    the   instant   freedom    of  our 

hall. 
We  shall  not  trace  your  foot-fall  on  the  floor 
Nor  hear  your  urgent  paws  upon  the  door. 
The  loud-thumped  tail  that  welcomed  one 

and  all, 
The  volleyed  bark  that  nightly  would  appal 
Our  tim'rous  errand  boys — these  things  are 

o'er. 

But  always  yours  shall  be  a  household  name. 
And  other  dogs  must  list'  your  storied  fame  ; 
So  gallant  and  so  courteous,  Scott,  you  were, 

[  ^29  ] 


To  Your  Dog  a?id  to  My  Dog 

Mighty  abroad,  at  home  most  debonair. 
Now  God  Who  made  you  will  not  count  it 

blame 
That  we  commend  your  spirit  to  His  care. 


>» 


*'DODO, 

1903-1913 

BY 
ARTHUR  AUSTIN-JACKSON 
From 
7he  Spectator 


By  permission  of  The  London  Sptctaur 


"DODO" 

1903-1913 

Here  lies  a  little  dog  who  now 
Asks  nothing  more  of  man's  goodwill 
Than  the  grey  stone  that  tells  you  how 
She  loved  the  friends  who  love  her  still. 


Sir  Walter  Scott' s  translation  of  Lockhart* s 
epitaph  for  ^^  Maidd  s  grave'' 

"  Beneath  the  sculptured  form  which  late 
you  wore 
Sleep  soundly  Maida,  at  your  master's  door." 


[  143  ] 


"HAMISH" 


A    SCOTCH     TERRIEP. 

From  The  London  Spectator 

BY 
C.    HILTON    BROWN 


"HAMISH";   A   SCOTCH    TERRIER 

Little  lad,  little  lad,  and  who's  for  an  airing. 
Who  's  for  the  river  and  who  's  for  a  run ; 
Four  little  pads  to  go  fitfully  faring, 
Looking  for  trouble  and  calling  it  fun  ? 
Down  in  the  sedges  the  water-rats  revel, 
Up  in  the  wood  there  are  bunnies  at  play 
With  a  weather-eye  wide  for  a  Little  Black 

Devil : 
But  the  Little  Black  Devil  won't  come  to- 
day. 

To-day  at  the  farm  the  ducks  may  slumber. 
To-day  may  the  tabbies  an  anthem  raise ; 
Rat  and  rabbit  beyond  all  number 
To-day  untroubled  may  go  their  ways : 
To-day  is  an  end  of  the  shepherd's  labour. 
No  more  will  the  sheep  be  hunted  astray ; 
And  the  Irish  terrier,  foe  and  neighbour, 
Says,  "What's  old  Hamish  about  to-day?" 

[  147] 


To  Your  Dog  and  to  My  Dog 

Ay,  what  indeed  ?  In  the  nether  spaces 
Will  the  soul  of  a  Little  Black  Dog  despair? 
Will  the  Quiet  Folk  scare  him  with  shadow- 
faces  ? 
And  how  will  he  tackle  the  Strange  Beasts 

there  r 
Tail  held  high,  I  '11  warrant,  and  bristling. 
Marching  stoutly  if  sore  afraid, 
Padding  it  steadily,  softly  whistling ;  — 
That  's   how  the    Little    Black    Devil    was 
made. 

Then  well-a-day  for  a  "  cantie  callant," 
A  heart  of  gold  and  a  soul  of  glee,  — 
Sportsman,  gentleman,  squire  and  gallant, — 
Teacher,  maybe,  of  you  and  me. 
Spread  the  turf  on  him  light  and  level. 
Grave  him  a  headstone  clear  and  true  — 
"  Here  lies  Hamish,  the  Little  Black  Devil, 
And  half  of  the  heart  of  his  mistress  too." 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .    A 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-40m-7,'56(C790s4)444 


piI____Kinnicntt  _- 

16110    To  your  dog  and 
DdK6__JtO-Jny  ^QS 


PN 

6110 

D6K6 


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